


We Ain't Got No Money, We Ain't Got No Right

by Enfilade



Series: Waltz With The Devil [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Asexuality, Bets & Wagers, Comedy of Errors, DJD - Freeform, Drinking, Gaming, Humor, Online Immaturity, Other, Stupid Bets & Dumbass Wagers, Voyeurism, scavengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tesarus loses an ill-advised bet with a fellow gamer on the Galactic Gaming Network and hands over a DJD surveillance video to the winner.  Unfortunately, that video has some very incriminating evidence on it about an encounter between Tarn and a certain Autobot.  And it's now in the hands of the galaxy's best Cogs of Combat sharpshooter...  Guess who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Ain't Got No Money, We Ain't Got No Right

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be a humour fic. That being said, it does contain references to what the DJD do for a living, people watching a video of other people engaged in intimate activity, the subjects of the video having no idea their film has gone public, references to m/m romance, and the word "porn." If any of that is a dealbreaker for you, give this one a pass.
> 
> This story was originally written as the epilogue to "Drinking with the Devil." However, in the end the tone of the two stories was different enough that I thought it should be its own story. It's also possible people who might not want to read Tarn/Pharma flirting might get a laugh at this.
> 
> The title of the fic comes from a line in a Jimmy Buffett song. The song's title includes a problematic word, so I've decided not to use it as a story title out of respect for Rroma/Rom people and really anyone else who doesn't want to see an ethnic slur. However, I do think the song really suits the Scavengers, so if you can forgive a 20-ish year old song for the use of a problematic term, give a listen to "Gypsies in the Palace" by Jimmy Buffett.

_Drinking with the Devil_ Epilogue: We Ain’t Got No Money, We Ain’t Got No Right

“Guys,” Misfire called. “Guyyyyys. Flywheels! Crankcase! Come watch this!”

Crankcase snorted and shifted his weight on one end of the worn but still serviceable couch here in the W.A.P.’s lounge, while Spinister sat up eagerly at the other end. Crankcase had just gotten a data disc from their latest salvage, entitled _Starfighters of the Decepticon Empire_. The previous owner wasn’t going to miss it, just like he wasn’t missing his fuel pump, T-cog or credit stick. Dead guys didn’t miss much, it seemed.

Whoever the dead guy had been, he’d had at least one interest in common with Crankcase: a love of flying machines. The data disk was better than porn, as far as Crankcase was concerned. He’d been looking forward to spending a night curled up on the couch, checking out pictures of sleek airframes and dreaming of the day he might get to fly some of those beauties. 

That plan had been completely derailed by Misfire’s excited yelling. The purple Decepticon sat on the floor in front of a jury rigged monitor and game console, a controller in one hand and a half eaten bag of Data Chipz in the other. The dead guy had possessed an unused one-year pass to GGN – the Galactic Gaming Network – and Misfire had jumped at the chance to play online. He’d had no one to challenge save his fellow Scavengers since his previous pass had expired, and at this point no one else on the ship would play against him.

Video games were nothing like real life, and here was living proof. Misfire had his favourite game, Cogs of Combat, loaded up, and the screen currently displayed Misfire’s character and battle stats. According to the stats, he’d earned 156 “Marksmanship Medals” in this round alone, with a lifetime Kill Factor easily three digits longer than those of the other Scavengers all put together.

Across the room, Flywheels gave up on his attempts to study what looked like the Covenant of Primus. He set the data reader down and walked over to Misfire, who pointed at the screen. A rolling dialogue scrolled past, indicating the conversation taking place on the channel.

“This guy – grindXhouse – says he’ll bet me a top secret surveillance video from DJD Headquarters that I can’t beat him in a one-on-one match.”

“Are you gonna do it?” Flywheels asked.

“You’re damned right I am,” Misfire said with a grin. “Challenge accepted.”

Crankcase couldn’t let this slide. “Are you sure you should be doing that? I mean, couldn’t you get put on the List for having something the DJD wants to keep secret?”

“Pfft.” Misfire made a face. “Who’s afraid of the DJD?”

“Not me,” Flywheels said, and transformed.

“Yeah. The DJD have better things to do than chase down guys like us.” Crankcase scowled. “Assuming there even _is_ a DJD.”

“What?” Misfire asked in disbelief, his optics shimmering with slighted conviction.

“Misfire. Have you ever seen the DJD? No. You haven’t. _Nobody has_. Not me, not you, not anyone here. It’s always a guy you served with had a friend whose batchmate said he once saw the DJD in action. There might not even be _any such thing_ as the DJD.” He folded his arms. “They might just be a story made up by Soundwave’s Intelligence Service to keep the rank-and-file in line.”

“Well, if you’re right and all Krok’s scary campfire stories are wrong…then why shouldn’t I serve up a big steaming platter of _lick my skidplate_ to Grind-Eks-House?”

Crankcase huffed. There was no way any one team of mechs could have actually done even half of what the DJD were alleged to have done. And yet…and yet…

“Because if I’m wrong, it’s just way too awful to think about.”

“Pfft. Now you’re just being a coward.”

Flywheels transformed back to robot mode. His optics darted between Crankcase and Misfire, as if he wasn’t sure who to believe. “You think it’s really a DJD surveillance video?” Flywheels asked. “Like, for real?”

“It _better_ be, or I’ll tell everyone on the channel that grindXhouse is a liar and a welsher.”

“That’s a big X,” Spinister said, squinting at the screen.

Leave it to Spinister to miss the point. “Hey Misfire,” Crankcase said, “your buddy there is asking you to bet something in return.”

“Ten thousand terrabytes of Lithonian porn,” Misfire said into his transmitter.

“Where did you get ten thousand terrabytes of Lithonian porn?” Flywheels made a face. “Why would you _want_ ten thousand terrabytes of Lithonian porn?”

“It’s not mine, it’s Krok’s,” Misfire said.

“Gross,” Flywheels said.

Even Spinister could tell that betting your commanding officer’s personal stash was a bad idea. “He’s gonna kill you,” the medic said.

“Only if I lose it. Which I won’t,” said Misfire confidently. “I am awesome at this game. Now shut up and don’t distract me. Watch me kick grindXhouse’s shiny metal ass.”

#

Well, _frag_.

Tesarus dropped his controller and muttered to himself. He’d been so certain the user who went by the name _S1MF1R3_th3_d3A+hbR1Ng3R_ was a pompous blowhard that he’d challenged him to a one-on-one match of Cogs of Combat with ten thousand terrabytes of Lithonian porn riding on his victory. 

Well, he’d been schooled. Hard. Tesarus wondered if “S1MF1R3” was really Sixshot, or maybe Lord Trannis. By the Pit, Tesarus just hoped “Simfire” was a Decepticon, because if he was an Autobot, they were up against a truly fearsome foe. Bodies everywhere…

Tesarus shook his head to settle his spark against the memory of the humiliating defeat he’d just suffered. A message scrolled up on his screen:

S1MF1R3_th3_d3A+hbR1Ng3R: pay up l0ser

Tesarus sighed.

S1MF1R3_th3_d3A+hbR1Ng3R: u said u had a djd surveillance video now lets see it

grindXhouse: fine keep your armour on. whats ur galaxyweb address

S1MF1R3_th3_d3A+hbR1Ng3R: u can send it to flywheels2in1@wap.gal

 _Slot, slag, smelt me down!_ A litany of curses streamed through Tesarus’ brain. He’d really wanted that Lithonian porn, too. Now, if he didn’t provide Simfire with a convincing video file, the other player would smear his online reputation to the entire Galactic Gaming Network. No one would want to play with him then, and he’d have to start his games profile over again from scratch under a new name. _Think…think!_ What could he give Simfire that wouldn’t end up with _him_ getting put on the List if Tarn found out??

Something boring. Something that was obviously DJD headquarters, but at a time when nothing interesting was going on. That would be just enough to give Simfire a bit of an illicit thrill without doing any actual damage, and Tesarus’ online reputation would be safe.

Fortunately, Tesarus was responsible for the DJD’s cyber security, so it was an easy matter to patch into the Headquarters’ security master control, go to the Trash, and select the first discarded file he saw. The system was set to purge itself automatically unless someone manually saved or erased a file, and so this was doubtlessly a video of some empty room in DJD headquarters. Either that, or Simfire would get a good look at Tarn doing paperwork.

Bo-ring.

Tesarus smirked and attached the file to a message.

grindXhouse: there. sent.

S1MF1R3_th3_d3A+hbR1Ng3R: thanx los3r 

The “deathbringer” immediately logged out.

Tesarus leaned back in his chair, lacing his primary arms behind his head and his secondary arms across his waist. No harm, no foul, but he’d lost his taste for Cogs of Combat. Oh well.

Maybe he’d play some _Summons to Service: Futuristic Warfare 18_ on the way back to Messatine.

#

“You did what?” Krok bellowed as he came running through the doorway, Spinister at his heels.

Crankcase sighed and put away his precious data disc. He’d rather save it for some night he could truly savour it. That night wasn’t going to be tonight.

“Way to tattle,” Flywheels muttered. Spinister hung his head.

“Didn’t do nothing,” Misfire replied easily. “Dude, I won!”

“Won what?” Krok asked skeptically.

“Flywheels, open your galactic mailbox,” Misfire said.

“I can’t believe you gave him _my_ address,” Flywheels whined, but he did it anyway. There it was: a file from grindxhouse@ptyranny.gal

Crankcase squinted at the sender’s address. That couldn’t really be…it was a spoof. Right?

“Okay, let’s check this out,” Misfire said, rubbing his hands with great relish as the file downloaded. He wasted no time in clicking it and selecting “play.”

Crankcase pondered voicing a concern that this was a bad idea, but in the end he kept his mouth shut. Krok probably already knew it was a bad idea, Spinister probably wasn’t able to understand that it was a bad idea, and Misfire was permanently short the two clicks crucial to the formation of a clue. Flywheels was already shaking, and if Crankcase got him any more freaked out, he’d keep the whole ship awake all night with screaming nightmares. It just wasn’t worth it.

And Crankcase didn’t want to admit that part of him was just a _tiny_ bit curious what was on the file.

The camera opened on a lushly appointed room that might’ve well been from a novel or movie, for all that kind of luxury on the screen had any correlation to Crankcase’s real life, now or before the Scavengers, before the head injury, before the war. The Scavenger’s awed hush turned to impatient fidgeting as one minute of watching flames crackle in a fireplace drew out to five.

“Weak,” Flywheels said. 

“I think you got cheated,” Spinister said, voicing what everyone else had already figured out.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Misfire muttered, scooping up his controller. He was just about to begin the log-in sequence for GGN when something moved on screen.

“Oh, Primus,” Crankcase heard himself breathe, his optics fixed on the purple mech in the mask who’d just walked on screen, holding a glass of sparkling engex.

“That’s fake,” said Krok, not very convincingly. 

“Is that him?” Spinister asked. “Is that Tarn, for real?”

“No way,” said Flywheels. “That’s just some grunt in a mask.”

Crankcase stared. “Krok…that ident code at the bottom of the screen…that looks pretty real to me.” He couldn’t tear his optics away from the image of the big purple mech with the double barrelled fusion cannon mounted on his back, and the mask in the shape of the Decepticon insignia welded to his face.

_That’s Tarn. He looks just like the stories say. It’s really him._

_The DJD is real, and we have their surveillance footage._

And Tarn wasn’t alone. Someone else walked into the shot, carrying a glass of his own.

“Is that an Autobot?” Misfire squealed.

Crankcase squinted at the insignia on the wings of the white jet who’d just walked into the picture, holding a similar glass of engex. “Yep.”

“This is gonna be good,” Misfire said, hugging a pillow and wriggling with excitement.

Privately, Crankcase agreed. He wasn’t sure how Tarn had managed to lure an Autobot into his lair, or why the Autobot wasn’t terrified out of his mind the way Crankcase would’ve been in the presence of the commander of the DJD. In fact, part of Crankcase wanted to curl up in a ball and scream just at the knowledge that the DJD actually existed. The other part of Crankcase, though, was kind of intrigued at the idea of seeing an Autobot get what was coming to him.

But for the next half hour, the two mechs on screen did nothing but sit side-by-side on a couch listening to music, eating candy and sipping their drinks. Crankcase huffed. That was half an hour he could’ve spent ogling starships. Krok was clearly bored too, from the way he was typing furiously on his datapad rather than watching the show.

“This isn’t right,” Spinister said at last. “Not enough guts.”

“Yeah,” Flywheels said. “I thought we’d get to see that Autobot be, I dunno, didn’t Krok’s story say the DJD make you eat your own brain? I want to see how _that_ works. I mean, if they’ve ripped out your brain, how do you make your mouth move enough to eat it?”

“You can’t eat your own brain, dumbass,” Crankcase growled. “They rip it out and then they shove it down your throat.”

“Then why do they say…”

“Because it sounds grosser that way.” Crankcase leaned over and grabbed the bag of Data Chipz. If his night of sexy star cruisers was ruined, he could at least enjoy something tasty. “Also Flywheels, if you saw someone’s brain ripped out, you wouldn’t sleep for a week.”

“Would too.” Flywheels transformed.

“Would not,” Misfire taunted.

“Would too.” Flywheels transformed back.

“Shut up!” Spinister huffed, pointing at the screen.

Flywheels and Misfire stopped. Looked. Stared.

Crankcase stared too, and began sincerely wishing he was looking at brain-eating.

“It’s getting good!” Spinister announced.

“Aw, boo!” Crankcase picked up a blanket and threw it at the screen. “This isn’t a DJD surveillance video! It’s some crappy cheap porno!” 

“Crankcase! Dude!” Misfire yanked the blanket forcefully off the side of the viewscreen to prevent it from obscuring the picture. “ _Who the hell cares_?”

“Yeah, who cares?” Flywheels reached into Misfire’s snack bag and drew out a handful of Data Chipz. He shoved them into his mouth, then just about choked as Tarn reached up to fondle the wings of the Autobot jet on his lap. “This is _totally hot_.” 

Even Krok, Crankcase noted, was staring at the screen.

“You guys are sick,” Crankcase scowled, standing up and storming out of the room. “I’ll be in the cockpit. Friggin’ clean the floor when you’re done.”

Crankcase stalked out. Much to his surprise, Krok got up and followed right behind him.

“Crankcase,” the Scavengers’ impromptu leader said.

“What?” Crankcase snapped.

“I’d like you to set course to Solregit.”

“What...that’s practically the other side of the quadrant!”

“Exactly.”

Krok seemed weird somehow. Quiet, commanderly, but also shaken. Crankcase didn’t want to be all _sappy_ or anything, but Krok was a decent guy and Crankcase didn’t like seeing him this way. “What’s wrong, sir?” Crankcase asked, trying to sound like he _kind of_ cared, but not _too much_.

“You were right.” He tapped his datapad. “I just traced the file. Those ident codes are real. So is the ptyranny server, and the grindxhouse account is linked to both tesarus@ptyranny.gal and djdwebmaster@messatine.con gal-mail addresses.”

Crankcase let his brain process that for precisely three point six seconds before he opened his mouth and breathed a quiet curse. “Oh, scrap me and melt me down.”

“Precisely.”

The other side of the quadrant sounded like a pretty good place to be, Crankcase thought as he sprinted for the control console and turned the W.A.P. around, boosting power to the throttles as much as he dared given the vessel’s current fuel status and state of repair. On their way there, Crankcase was going to do his absolute best to forget that he ever saw the leader of the DJD making out with an Autobot, and after that, he was going to work on forgetting that anyone else had, either.

If they were lucky…if they were very, very lucky…Crankcase would never have to think about this misadventure, ever again.


End file.
